Page 248 of Coach
Then Mateo’s infectious smile popped into my head, and his accent curled around me, drifting through Journey’s drumbeats to find its way into my ears.
Fuck me. I want to go to the damn game.
Who did that? What kind of stalker . . .
Just the thought of Mateo on that court, barking out plays, calling drills, pacing like a general in sneakers—it lit something up in my chest. So many foreign feelings flared in my chest: curiosity, admiration, maybe something a little needier.
But also?
I was tired.
Bone-deep tired.
And showing up smelling like desperation and cedar chips didn’t scream romantic follow-up to a shirtless make-out session.
I had time to shower and change. The boys didn’t start until seven-thirty, maybe later if the girls game before them took too long. Why did I even know that? In what world was I reading the high school sports page and caring about the stories? Had I lost the last marble rattling around in my thick, impenetrable skull?
Then again, if I stayed in the shop, I’d just end up sanding through this table leg like it owed me money, blasting more Journey—possibly resortingto Styx and spiraling about whether he thought last night meant something.
Or worse—whether I thought it did.
I dragged a hand through my hair again and glanced toward the half-finished project, then toward the door. It was like watching a match at Wimbledon from the front row at the net.
Back and forth and back and forth.
Damn it.
It wasn’t a question ofifanymore.
Only how fast I could shower, throw on clean jeans, and pretend I hadn’t spent the last hour carving mahogany while daydreaming about a man who kissed me like he meant it.
Screw this. I’m going.
I parked my truck in the far corner of the school lot, angled between two massive SUVs like I was hiding between two hulking secret service agents guarding who-knew-who at a high school basketball game.
Then I sat there with the engine off, my keys in the cupholder, and hands glued to the steering wheel. That wheel was my life raft, and I wasnotletting go.
Kids streamed by, backpacks slung low, laughing, shoving, running toward the gym like the game was the most important thing in their lives.
Still, I sat there.
Parents passed in pairs, a few in small clusters, talking about work and weekend plans. A group of moms in matching spirit wear power-walked by with Starbucks cups and homemade pom-poms. I made a mental note to avoid their section. Caffeine and parental adrenaline were a vicious combination.
Still, I didn’t move.
I didn’t know what the hell I was waiting for. I wasn’t one for nerves. I barely had feelings.
Was I waiting so my mind could change? So I could decide this was a terrible idea and the chair leg I left mangled on my workshop floor needed more love than anyone inside the building towering before me?
Maybe I was sitting there for the gym to empty so I could sneak in like a ghost?
Even though the game had yet to start, and no one would be pouring out for hours.
I was such a mess.
This wasn’t like me.
I’d faced down clients with million-dollar furniture orders and contractors who thought they knew better than me. I’d built pieces that took months tocomplete, carved curves that nearly broke my hands.
